We pull into Eighty-Sixth Street and the doors open.
Alex stares out onto the empty platform. “Do you hate me? For not answering your messages?”
“No. I don’t hate you.” Hatred and anger make me sad. I don’t do sad. It’s better to convince yourself you feel nothing.
Alex runs a hand over his head. He takes hold of the back of his neck as the train pulls out of the station. “Listen, I’m sorry. For how I left.”
My eyes are getting damp. He starts to say something about my parents but I stop him.
“That night at the ballet—my parents—none of it was about you. Really. They had to leave to get my brother. He was sort of freaking out. Finals and all.”
Alex watches me, like he senses the tiny lie in there. “How’s he doing? Your brother?”
“Fine. He’s fine.” I answer too quickly. I don’t want to talk about Merrit.
Alex nods. He frowns at his shoes. “Your parents—your mother—she didn’t say anything about me? Afterward?”
“No. She hasn’t mentioned you.”
“Your mother didn’t mention me,” Alex repeats.
“Dad said he enjoyed meeting you. He wished he could have talked with you more.”
Alex lets out a long breath. A line appears between his brows. “Even though I wasn’t what he was expecting?”
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t know about my skin color.”
I grit my teeth. “Alex. That doesn’t matter to me. Obviously.” Did he think, all those times I was with him, when I was kissing him, that I was acting? That I really wasn’t into him at all?
“I’m not talking about whether it matters to you. I’m talking about your parents. You didn’t tell them before. Don’t you think that would have been important? So that this face and this body wouldn’t be what broke it to them?” He’s pointing at himself. His words are quiet. He doesn’t sound angry. But his other hand is clenched in a fist, like he might use it to punch something.
I turn and walk to the end of the car. I clutch my bag to my chest. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it wasn’t fair to him that I didn’t tell my parents, or at least Dad. But Dad’s not like that—I didn’t think it would matter. As for Mom, I was never going to tell her about Alex anyway. I know how she’d react. And I can’t tell Alex any of that. I can’t tell him that he’s right about her.
I drop onto a bench, hugging my knees to my chest. The past weeks have been torture. I’ve been dreaming of this, of Alex coming back to me, since the moment he left. But maybe this is a mistake. I can’t feel his wide arms around me—I can’t see his intense, almost hungry gaze—if he’s just going to disappear. I don’t think I could stand it. I have to be strong for my family. But I’m not that strong.
Alex sits two seats away. He looks worried.
“Isa. Please. Can I touch you?”
I can’t speak—by now tears are streaming down my face—so I just nod.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His hand on my back is warm. I hate that it feels so good.
I shake my head. “No. I’m sorry.” He can apologize for not answering my messages. But the rest of it—all of this—it started because of me. Because of my messed-up family and our complicated life. I can’t be with someone, not right now. It’s not fair to either of us.
“I don’t think I can do this.” I slide out from under his arm and move to stand by the door. Alex comes up behind me; I see his reflection in the window. I feel his hurt, like heat, steaming off him.
We’re coming up on Ninety-Sixth, which is good. I don’t know how much longer I can stand near him and convince myself I don’t want this. Only the train isn’t slowing. We push through my station. The conductor comes on and tells us that due to delays, the train is running express to 137th. For access to all bypassed stops we need to transfer to the downtown train.
Oh no.
We’re rushing along so quickly I can’t think.
Alex offers me his phone. “Do you need to call your mother?” He remembers.
“Thanks, but I don’t need to.” Mom won’t be waiting for me. She’s seeing her doctor tonight.
I rest my head against the bar. I don’t look at Alex’s face, because if you’re starving, staring into a restaurant at people eating steak and lobster will just make you feel more miserable, won’t it? But what if you’re not starving for the food? What if you’re starving for the laughter, for the hands touching across the table? It doesn’t matter. I can’t have any of it.
We’re already passing 116th. Only two more stops to go.
A baby in a stroller starts to fuss. The mother stares out the window, her sleepy eyes widening as we shoot out onto the elevated tracks. She blinks at the twinkling lights, at the raindrops that streak the glass. A fat little hand smacks at the sippy cup lodged beside a pink blanket. I’m so distracted, I don’t notice the train has stopped.
“Isa? Aren’t you getting off?” Alex’s voice is quiet. Almost like he doesn’t want me to hear him.
“Oh!” I swing around. This is where we say goodbye. Only I can’t form the words, not without crying.
The woman with the baby is pushing the stroller out. The wheels get caught in the gap. She mutters and jams at the stroller. The baby falls back against the blanket.
“Can I help you?” I grab hold of the front wheels. I lift them out of the rut. I place them down gently on the platform. “There you go,” I say. Only it’s not the mother’s hands on the stroller. It’s Alex’s. The mother is behind him. He’s talking to her in Spanish.
“There are a lot of stairs at this station,” Alex says to me. “It’ll be hard for her by herself.” He motions for me to step aside. Instead, I take the front.
He lifts the stroller, taking so much of the weight, I do little more than steer. As we put it down at the top of the steps, I smile at the baby. I’m rewarded with a gurgle and a flap of a chubby arm. Alex is watching the mother slowly climb up behind us. Rain pelts us as we exit the station and cross the street.
At the top of the downtown entrance, Alex heaves the stroller up. He waits down at the platform. The mother thanks us multiple times. I give the sweet baby a wave as the mother heads to a bench.
Alex stands beside me. He stomps mud from his sneakers.
“Aren’t you going uptown?” I ask, pretending to myself I don’t care.
His gaze swings to the mother and the baby. “They’re going to Ninety-Six. I told her that’s where I’m going too.” He looks at me. “Do you mind? If I ride with you?”
“Sure, anything to help the baby.” I fling my arm in the air. I mean it to be funny, but it comes out as overly dramatic, like something my mom would do.
Alex takes my hand just before I slip it back in my pocket. “I’m not doing this for the baby,” he says.
I look at his sneakers, white laces now stained with dirt. “I know.” I don’t pull my hand away. It feels too good, right where it is.
“I’m sorry,” Alex says again. His thumb traces my finger, just like he did backstage. Like he’s sad, like he’s saying goodbye. “Your show, it shook me up. Meeting your parents, that shook me up too. But the ballet itself, the story? It made me think about us. How we’re so different. Maybe too different. It made me worry we would never work. That’s why I left.”